Peer Review
by Who Is Caligula
Summary: Bond confronts an unseen force that cannot be outmaneuvered, outwitted, or overpowered. Work in progress, please review
1. Chapter 1

"Peer Review"

A James Bond Story

By Who Is Caligula, 2007

Part I

Bond was guided to a rusted platform where the metal lattice floor allowed beams of white light to flicker around his boots in a curious fashion. The faint stench of formaldehyde lingered in his sinuses, despite being several meters away from the main hallway. Bond found it tolerable at best. A man with his experience wants no reminder of the many odorous memories he must bear till the end of his days.

"Doctor Wiseman will be with you in a moment" piped the statuesque grad student who took it upon herself to be Bond's tour guide shortly after he'd entered the building. She nearly skipped down the stairs like a schoolgirl on Christmas morning. For someone so bubbly, Bond found her departure to be unusually quick. Perhaps he should have been more amiable; she seemed silly and flirtatious during their little walk, but time constraints kept him from playing the role of the flattered bachelor. He wasn't normally one to appear prudish, but his goal was-

"Can I help you?"

Bond's thoughts were interrupted by the researcher's voice at the other side of the dark observation post. There was a partially illuminated silhouette somewhere in the blackness, cast in a dull shade of blue. Bond guessed there was a computer monitor nearby. He approached the figure with an outstretched hand, hoping to use friendly charm to buy himself some extra time.

"Good evening. My name is Bond".

"Bond?" she barked abruptly, the echo of rubber soles on metal as she stepped into the light to meet him. He was not altogether impressed when the harsh light of the laboratory struck her wrinkled face. Perhaps his initial meeting with the grad student had spoiled him.

"Bond, yeah. I remember. You called about someone you were lookin' for this mornin', right?" Her eyes darted up from her laptop only after she'd finished speaking. Seeing his extended palm, she took it, and shook weakly.

Cold, as expected. Bond was glad, yet he allowed his posture to relax far more than his mind.

"You've got a sharp memory, ma'am. Yes, I was looking for an old friend. A researcher by the name of Alex Kratovsky. I believe he was working under your tutelage here recently."

Bond's impatience was making him sound a bit too much like someone from law enforcement. He had to watch that.

"Recently?" she snapped back. There was an unrestrained New York twang to her voice. Bond was surprised he hadn't noticed it sooner.

"Yes, in the past month or so. You wouldn't happen to-"

"Yeah, I remember Alex. Haven't seen him in a few weeks, though. Left for some business trip, but I forgot where. You want his cell number?"

Hardly any effort was made to snag an _r _onto the end of _number_. She spoke quickly, too. Definitely New York.

"Certainly, if you have it. Seems like he's a tough fellow to get a hold of".

"Gimme a sec, hon. I'll see if I can dig it up for ya."

He watched as she clicked her fingers on the keyboard for several seconds before snatching a manila folder in her clawed appendages and heading into a nearby office area. Bond followed behind her at a modest distance, ever the submissive guest.

"Alex was the pale guy, right? Thinning hair and thick glasses. I do faces much better than names".

Bond reached into his breast pocket and extracted a casual looking headshot of the grinning Alex Kratovsky. She squinted at it for a brief moment, nodding once before ruffling through a messy mountain of papers on her desk.

Bond studied the small office space with the insatiable curiosity of an American tourist. He really was a foreigner here, so she probably wouldn't find his probing eyes terribly distressing. That was his hope, anyway.

Most of the office was lined with papers, some bearing harsh creases and crumpled edges. It magnified the pale color of the room, from the pearly furniture to the harsh white walls and cracking ceiling. Still, Bond found it unusually Spartan, not what one would expect from an old woman. There were no colorful trinkets lining the shelves or showy diplomas hanging on the walls. The walls were extremely bare, in fact. The only outstanding item he noticed was a small, metal picture frame housing a black and white photo. A handsome young couple grinned silently, with the man's smile appearing somewhat forced. Bond guessed the good doctor was a widow from an intense, but probably happy marriage. She obviously wouldn't have this singularly framed picture in her office if it didn't mean anything to her. He considered asking her about the photo, but thought better of it.

"Here ya go. You can keep that, if ya want. It's all stored on the network, so we don't need it anyway".

Bond took the thin red folder from her trembling hand. He glanced through it, and was surprised to find an assortment of contact information, including a home address and two emergency contacts in the event of a crisis. This would give him quite a bit to work with. But before starting, there was one last thing he needed to do.

"This will be helpful. Thank you, Doctor Wiseman."

She grinned meekly before rising back to full height, a trying task for a person her age.

"I'd still like to ask you a few questions about Alex, if you have a moment to-"

"Look, I gave ya everything I have on this fellah. If ya want something else, you'll have to look someplace else. I only worked with him on two projects, so I don't know much about him."

"But you know_ some_ things about him, yes? Even small details might be helpful in locating him. I could meet you later in the evening, when you have some free time."

Bond studied the doctor's aged, tired features. She had her plate full as it was, and didn't want to be bothered by some foreigner in fancy clothes. This authoritative appeal wasn't going over well. He needed to win her over, and not let his impatience drive his actions.

"Let me buy you dinner, at least. To thank you for your help."

"Fine. I was gonna meet my daughter tonight at Angelo's, but I'm sure she won't mind if you show up with me. She just got back from California. She's a very nice girl, you know. Not half bad-lookin' for a gal with thirty some years on her".

Bond smiled and nodded politely, pretending as best he could to have an interest in the good doctor's personal affairs. In truth, he was beginning to feel like he could trust her a bit more than his initial feelings allowed him. She was either completely unaware of the danger she was in, or she was a very good actor.

Danger.

Perhaps waiting until dinner was a bit risky. It was alright, though. He had a bit more to work with now, and he could use what few hours remained to do a little digging. She should be safe for the time being, anyway. After all, the poor woman could turn out to be a dead end, in which case Bond would need to resort to more direct methods of operation. He politely bid farewell to the good doctor before exiting her office and made his way down the familiar, metal lattice steps. He took a sharp breath before passing into the hallway, hoping to steel himself against the nauseating stench from cheap containers of chemically preserved corpses. He never really understood the purpose of forcing school children to perform dissections on dead animals. In any case, the pungency of formaldehyde was far more sickening than the sight of any disemboweled frog. It was lucky he'd taken the sharp breath, because he hadn't managed more than a few strides down the hall when something knocked the wind clear out of his lungs and nearly forced him to his knees.

"Hands on the wall, now! Do it, now!"

Bond obeyed the oddly familiar voice, and pressed his palms against the cold blue tile. His pulse raced involuntarily, but he steadied himself quickly with controlled breathing until he came to his senses several seconds later. There had been great power in that voice, but its pitch sounded rather high. A female police officer?

A single hand deftly washed across his body, frisking him with an almost military efficiency. He'd been frisked countless times, and gauged this one to be the result of many years of experience. It was a far cry from the slow, lazy groping of that inattentive Venezuelan mercenary from two summers past. Poor fellow lost a tooth for that sloppy work, but at least Bond hadn't been forced to kill him. Hopefully he'd know better next time. Whoever was frisking him at the moment certainly knew what they were doing. An experienced police officer, perhaps.

Bond instantly recognized the sensation of cold metal at the base of his neck.

"Eyes forward, pal. No sudden moves", came the voice, softer and yet just as menacing.

Actually, Bond had long suspected that people with his skills were largely responsible for the booming PMC industry. Even the United States government couldn't resist the lure of experienced, professional guns for hire anymore. Most U.S. citizens just went about their lives, thinking their country's own military had a good handle on things. Many of them had only a very superficial understanding of their own nation's infrastructure. Sad, really.

The frisk ended as quickly as it began. His Walther P99 was ripped crudely from its holster. Bond was thankful he'd left the safety on; whoever held his gun now probably wouldn't have shed tears over an accidental discharge, particularly if the stray round punctured his stomach.

Hands off. The woman – whoever she was – wisely put some distance between herself and her suspect. It would be very difficult for Bond to disarm her without getting hurt in the process. She obviously was expecting his arrival, and expressed no surprise when she removed the loaded firearm from his person. He was still a very serious threat, but she seemed to take every precaution. Bond considered his predicament while she cuffed him, which allowed him less than three seconds.

"What are you, some police officer? Do you have a badge?"

"Yeah, I got a badge. Now turn around, and do it slowly, before I shove it halfway up your ass."

_Americans_, Bond thought. They certainly had their way with the English language.

"Listen, I think there's been some mistake-"

"Shut it. Should've played the bystander card before I pulled the gun off ya. Now you're goin' to the station. Open the door."

Now facing his captor, Bond was taken aback by the images his eyes were sending to his brain. This was the grad school student, still clad in a small white tee and low-fitting blue jeans, with a pistol aimed squarely at his chest. Those happy brown eyes were now dark with intent, and her cutesy, musical tone was now sullied with the grit of Brooklyn streets. Her skin was olive and looked tough enough to withstand years of urban chaos. She reminded Bond of a Brazilian woman he'd once spent the evening with, but that woman had been a portrait of polite behavior and traditional Latino femininity. This woman, she was something else. The attack had been so fast, she could have easily killed him a dozen times over by now if she'd wanted to. Bond never saw it coming. She had fooled him well right from the start. A hormonal schoolgirl one moment, and a powerhouse of deadly precision the next.

Bond found this fresh blend of fiery, feral animal and exotic beauty to be more than a little erotic.

"I said open it, pal. Hold the door open and stay right there".

Bond did as he was told, but made no effort to conceal his smirk. She passed very close to him as she exited the corridor and stepped outside, keeping the gun trained on him, their eyes never breaking contact. No chances, indeed. Whoever she was, she obviously knew enough not to take her eyes off him.

Such a fixation could work to his advantage, he thought. He grinned more freely now, breathing the clean autumn air which smelled nothing like formaldehyde. She didn't appear to relax a single muscle in that taut little body. One suspicious move and she would pounce on him like a tiger. Bond's imagination wasn't helping to quiet his libido, but he appeared unworried.

Had the parking lot been busier, they would have seemed quite the conspicuous pair. A well-dressed gentleman in handcuffs being escorted to a squad car by a young woman in street clothes, wielding what Bond correctly believed to be a Glock 19. He'd never seen such a weapon in the hands of an NYPD officer, though. In fact, the last time he'd seen a similar Glock variant was on the mutilated body of a Shin Bet agent back during his investigation of a major terrorist threat in Jerusalem. It had been a close call, but the Israelis knew how to get things done. The severity of that crisis had been completely shielded from the public's eyes, of course.

"Get in the car, go on."

She'd even opened the rear door of the squad car without breaking eye contact. Bond was certain that far fewer Venezuelan teeth would litter the ground had those careless drug lords bothered to hire a real professional like this one.

He still couldn't be sure of her status as an officer of the law. Imitating a police officer was far easier than most people assumed. The usual problem was that the imitators were trying to elevate their perceived power through act of imitation; in this instance, Bond thought it far more likely that this imitator would be trying to diminish her perceived level of authority. Which meant that she knew far more than she let on.

She held the door open with one hand and used the other to keep the Glock sighted on his torso. Only when he ensconced himself in the center of the vehicle did she break eye contact and holster her weapon at last.

"You know, the last time a woman put me in cuffs-"

She slammed the rear door shut. No one paid heed to the NYPD squad car as it left the vacant university parking lot.


	2. Chapter 2

Alex Kratovsky sat upright in a hospital bed, his eyes baggy from lack of sleep and his lips cracked from lack of drink. The doctor hadn't seemed terribly concerned about the possibility of malnourishment or psychological trauma. Alex was practically trembling with fear when they first brought him in, and he hadn't eaten all day. Maybe he'd feel more relaxed if they at least allowed him to maintain a decent blood sugar level. When Alex had finally managed to articulate his concerns that someone dangerous was out to get him, the doctor referred him to the hospital's psychiatrist, who in turn referred him to the hospital's pharmacy for a prescription of something or other. Probably a benzodiazepine, or some other happy pill that would make the whole world a happy place. These nurses, doctors, and hospital staff didn't give a damn about him. They just wanted their shift to end so they could take their paycheck and go home to their soft beds where they would sleep, eat, have sex, and watch television for the rest of the day. Alex spent most of his time working, even when he wasn't "at work", as the people here liked to say. At least they hadn't forced him to wait around for hours on end, like they had done last year when he'd broken his collar bone.

"Some hospital", Alex mumbled aloud.

The patient sleeping in the bed on Alex's left twisted his head in response to the sound, but Alex didn't care. He wanted to get out of this place, even though his home was probably a ransacked disaster area by now. He scratched the stubble of his fleshy cheek, and realized suddenly that he hadn't even shaved in days. He probably smelled terrible, too. No wonder the nurses were so quick to leave him. They probably thought he was some homeless maniac. Maybe that wasn't so far from the truth.

"Alex Kratovsky? How are you feeling, sir?"

Alex turned to face the doctor, some new face he'd never seen before. He was not altogether thrilled to see a new face at the foot of his stiff hospital bed, but this guy looked different. He seemed very professional, and spoke with an authoritative British accent.

"Not so great. What's a guy gotta do to get some food around here?"

"I'll see what I can do. But I must warn you, this is one of the worst restaurants in the city. I'm afraid you'll find the menu and the wait staff to be very disappointing".

The doctor let out a sigh of discontent while flipping through the pages of his clipboard, like some kind of snobby restaurant critic. Alex chuckled. He couldn't even remember the last time he allowed himself to laugh. It felt like years.

"Before the maître d' arrives, I just need to ask you a few questions".

"Sure", Alex replied. He found himself strangely cooperative now, but why not? This was an unusually charming doctor, who didn't treat him like a cheap chunk of stew meat in an abattoir. The deadpan humor reminded him of his GP back home.

"The circumstances of your injuries. Can you tell me more about them?"

"Oh. Well, not really. I mean, I told the other doctors about the car that hit me from behind. It sped off right after the collision. I guess it was just an accident, but-"

"But, what? You can tell me anything, Alex".

Alex told him. He wasn't sure why. Something about the icy blue of his eyes just pierced right through the fog of fear. This man was clearly powerful, intelligent, and kind. It was rare to find someone who carried all three of these qualities, especially in this horrible place. If Alex had been born a woman, he would have probably been sexually attracted to this man. The guy probably got more than his fair share of action.

But Alex hadn't been born a woman. He was a man, and that burden meant he would never know the lighthearted, playful nature of feminine creatures. Not unless he managed to acquire his own woman, of course, but he was fairly certain that he was destined to die alone in a sea of crumpled paper and candy bar wrappers. A sad, lonesome death for poor Alex.

Just not in this place, hopefully. At least, not yet.

"And these men have threatened you in the past?"

"Yes, several times over the past month. They call me at home, sometimes when I'm sleeping. I figured they were just trying to scare me, but they kept getting worse. The most recent one told me I should 'keep my eyes on the road when I'm driving'. I wrote it off as some stupid metaphor, but then I got rear-ended by a big white van the next day. The other doctor said I should be glad I survived, and that I should assume it was some accident. Bullshit. I wouldn't be surprised if he was on their payroll, actually".

"On whose payroll, exactly?"

Alex grinned, obviously bemused that the good doctor was letting him go into such detail about what would surely be dismissed as paranoia or delusions of persecution.

"You ever hear of the Emerald Hawk?"

"I'm afraid I haven't. Sounds like an endangered species".

Alex scoffed, licked his lips, and offered his explanation in a slightly hushed voice.

"It's the opposite, actually. The Emerald Hawk has been getting stronger these past few years. Nobody knows much about them, or even that they exist. But anyone who does know them is very much aware of what they're capable of".

"So it's some sort of gang, then?"

Alex sat upright in his bed. Discussing this matter openly, with an intelligent human being, was comforting and disconcerting at the same time.

"If the Emerald Hawk is a gang, Mickey Mantle is in little league. They're big guys. Lots of money, lots of power, very highly organized. Like I said, most people don't even know they exist".

"Very interesting", said the doctor, a thoughtful expression playing upon his hard features. Alex hadn't seen such restrained, controlled emotion since he was a little tike, living near the naval base with his father. Most of the faces he met there demonstrated either happiness or hostility. The doctor expressed neither of these.

"Any idea how to get in touch with them? If they are, in fact, responsible for this mess".

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I don't know for sure that it's them. I've been pretty freaked out by the whole damn thing, as you can imagine. Maybe at this point I'm just imagining things, and it was all a coincidence. I don't know".

"I suppose you should be grateful these people don't want you dead. That's something."

"Really? How do you even know? I mean, if they had no problem slamming a huge van right into-"

"If they are as dangerous and organized as you say, they wouldn't make mistakes. I think this was an act of intimidation, not assassination."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Jesus, I can't even believe this shit. I just want to go home and get a good night's rest".

"This hospital is very secure, especially at night. Even a family member wouldn't be able to enter your room at night without a staff escort."

"I guess so. Maybe I'll be able to sleep better here, then. They said they wanted to keep me overnight, anyway. I hope my insurance is-"

"It's only money", said the doctor in his clipped, British voice. "Your life is what's important. Get some rest, and we'll deal with the details tomorrow".

"Alright. Does that mean I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I'm afraid I can't promise you that, but you're in good hands here. We're busy all day long, but we look after our patients. Even the ones who scorn our wine selection".

Just like that, he left.

Alex smirked. Why couldn't there be more doctors like that guy? He seemed very experienced, and Alex felt much more relaxed after having spoken with him. Easily the best doctor he'd ever dealt with.

He closed his eyes and relaxed his head against the cheap hospital pillow, and for the first time in days, dreamed of pleasant things without any interruption of fear.

Amanda Chesterfield's shift was over, and she was glad. She was still inside the hospital, but she'd gathered her things and had only to say goodbye to her co-workers before beginning the long drive home. Her legs throbbed slightly, and the knowledge that she would be able to sit down in just a few short moments made the tension in her forehead simply melt away.

"See ya tomorrow, Mandy", came the insect-buzzing of Dr. Feldman's voice behind her.

"Yeah, see ya then", she replied without turning or breaking pace.

It had been over a month since her first day on the job, and everywhere she went, people seemed to treat her like a child. She'd considered dyeing her hair a darker color, but ultimately decided it was her petite figure that was giving everyone, both patients and staff, the impression that she was somehow more innocent and ignorant than the other nurses.

This was a pervasive and frustrating falsehood that Amanda did not find easy to deal with. She was just as competent and smart as any of the other nurses, if not more so. As an intern in Chicago, the staff eventually warmed to her and respected her opinions without any hint of patronization.

This hospital was such a mess.

"Hey, Mandy. Ready to hit the traffic?"

Amanda paused at the corridor, taking the cup of cold water that one of the friendlier nurses offered to her.

"Thanks, yeah. I heard it was supposed to be really thick tonight".

"Great. I still need to grab dinner for my boy on the way home".

Slowly she sipped at the water, which tasted crisp and cold. Amanda hadn't even realized how thirsty she was, and she found herself emptying the plastic cup with just a few quick gulps.

Satisfied, she tossed the cup in a nearby trashcan and breathed the hospital air, which no longer bothered her nearly as much-

"Excuse me", muttered a deep voice behind her.

Amanda shifted her weight to allow the gentleman to pass. She felt foolish for blocking the closet entrance, especially when so many doctors were turning in for the night.

"Thank you", came the voice again, and a large hand brushed over her elbow as a strange doctor with blue eyes navigated through the usual obstacles blocking the hospital hallways. Most doctors seemed to shove their way through the halls, rushing without any concern for the organic status of a hallway obstacle. She'd been bruised on her shoulder from a heavily built doctor during her first week. People here could be so rude sometimes. Still, this man moved with a slower, more deliberate pace than Amanda had seen in any of the other doctors. His facial features also seemed more dominant than any doctor she'd encountered in this hospital before. Such powerful, coordinated movements were suggestive of athletic talent. He reminded her of a hockey player she dated a few years back. That guy had been a total ass, though. This guy was something else.

"Mel, who was that? That doctor that just passed through?"

"I don't know and I don't care". Mel stirred her pale coffee with a thin red straw, more for the relief of stress than the improvement of its flavor. Amanda found her fellow nurse's indifference to be somewhat troubling, yet strangely understandable, particularly at this time of day.

"Alright. I'm headed out".

"Drive safe, girl. Lotta crazies out there".

"No kidding", Amanda said as she waved goodbye and headed for the building's exit. The cold night air stung her ears almost instantly, but at least she didn't have far to walk. This weather was something she wasn't sure she could ever get used to.

She found herself clutching her bare elbow. That doctor had such warm hands. Hands like an athlete. _Athlete's hands?_

The parking lot felt suddenly vacant and quiet, despite the colorful rows of cars. Amanda hoped she would bump into the tall doctor again sometime, if only to learn his name.

Bond could have been more cautious during his infiltration of the hospital, but the entire organization had been a wreck. Understaffed and overworked employees seemed commonplace in this city, and Bond couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before the selfish greed of these American employers came back to bite them in the ass.

Still, he wasn't here to conduct an in-depth analysis of social reform. It had been almost disappointingly easy to enter a hospital room, don a disguise, accomplish his goals, and return that disguise upon leaving the hospital without receiving so much as a suspicious glance. It didn't matter. Bond was an exceptional infiltrator, and he knew it was only a matter of time before this mission strained his skills to their limit.

Or beyond.

Bond was relatively unconcerned for his personal safety at the moment. He'd learned everything he could from the poor man, and a follow-up visit to Alex's personal living quarters had yielded something even more striking. Small bottles of clear fluid labeled "X0-335" lined the bottom drawer of his nightstand. A cursory inspection might have been very discouraging to the casual investigator, since the bedroom was an obscene manifestation of the knowledge and fear that cluttered Alex's restless mind. Bond had been very thorough, and the strangely-labeled bottles had been the only outstanding item in Alex's home. He took only one bottle, the one left slightly askew and appearing to already be half empty, which made it less likely to be missed. It appeared to have nearly two ounces still remaining, and this was satisfactory. Laboratories at MI6 could identify fluids based on very small samples, and Bond didn't want to risk compromising his cover so early on in the mission. With only a single bottle missing from the case, a second interloper could not safely assume that someone had beaten them to the punch.

Bond had a feeling that there were many interlopers passing through Alex's apartment, even at this very moment. He stared at the LCD before him in the darkness of his hotel room, drumming his fingers on the thick wooden table. Bond was normally a quiet, patient agent, although self-control had not been one of his strengths. Ever.

Certainly not compared to the other agents employed by MI6, anyway.

A flicker of white snapped Bond's attention back to the center of the laptop monitor. System match. Alex Bryant Kratovsky. Useless data, mostly. Apparently, Alex had been hospitalized at the age of six for an asthma attack, and had been in and out of hospitals ever since. Even with such familiarity, he probably never enjoyed visiting the place. Bond couldn't blame him.

Like many people, Bond despised hospitals. They were a necessary evil, though. Just as Bond considered himself to be a necessary evil, at times. He never pretended to uphold noble principles of morality, but he never considered himself altogether evil. His personal attributes and professional skills earned him a colorful cornucopia of reputations, some more appropriate than others. Even among the exceptional agents that operated within MI6, Bond was not prone to compare his abilities to those of his fellow agents. He simply defied convention, and people who tried to study him were often reluctant to accept his unique status among humankind.

He'd always been different. A "loner", they called him as a child. Although little James Bond was far more likely to put someone else in a hospital than to end up in one himself. On a good day, at least.

A few keys were tapped, and Bond haphazardly began a different search. He exhaled gently.

Bond lifted the cool glass in his hand, admiring its angular patterns. The room's dim lighting made it a bit trickier, but it didn't matter. Bond was unusually comfortable with wounds involving broken glass, even before working for MI6. It didn't mean he couldn't admire glass in its pristine form.

Patience was required for people with his occupation; even so, he often admitted to himself that patience was not his greatest strength.

_Cut by glass._

Little Jamie Smith, with her long white dresses. Bond had only been a child at the time, but he still couldn't help glancing her way every so often. She read stories to the younger children, and although Bond usually pursued recreational activities of a more physical nature, his eyes were often drawn to that girl in white. She was easy to spot since she was the brightest shape in the tree's shade, always reading softly to the tiny children, who leaned forward with an almost religious reverence for her. She had several years on him, but there was just something about her expression whenever she looked his way-

Emerald Hawk. No matches found. _Damn._

One of the largest boys often lurched in front of the smaller children, prodding at little Jamie Smith every so often. Teasing her, not really a threat, at least not in Bond's preadolescent eyes. It had been Jamie's tears that really set him off, though. Bond believed that the boy's relentless meddling had been largely the result of wild hormones that weren't kept in check by the child's negligent parents. He was no more than a year older than little Jamie, but Bond assumed they were both at least three years older than he'd been at the time. Bond never knew that boy's name, and made no effort to find out. James knew only that his pulse quickened at the sight of him. There was no recognition of fear, though. If he had been afraid, he would have surely thought twice before delivering that swift kick to the boy's knee after several minutes of particularly aggressive taunts against Jamie.

If James recognized fear as a boy, he might have hesitated before using an angular glass shard to defend himself when the boy proceeded to charge him like an enraged bull. The boy was much larger than Bond, taller and of greater physical strength. He looked like a large, ugly monster more than a boy, especially in that moment. Bond was athletic as a boy, but lean and thin rather than strong and stout. No one would have expected that the larger boy would have spent the rest of his evening sobbing uncontrollably while strangers weaved stitches through his broken flesh and repaired the damage done by Bond's swipe of almost frightening precision.

Bond had been severely penalized after the incident, and the wealthy mother of the larger boy ensured that the brute received careful, royal treatment from then on. Bond didn't care. He knew he had won. So did the larger boy, who never ventured near the tree of storytelling, even months after the incident. Everyone seemed to watch Bond more carefully, too.

Especially Jamie Smith. The very next day, Jamie went through the trouble of leading him to a secluded area and kissing him on the mouth for nearly a full minute. Bond was too young to fully appreciate the gesture, but she seemed to warm to him and Bond never saw tears on her rosy little cheeks again. That was good enough for him.

He clutched the glass firmly between his fingers, lifting it to his nose. It was empty, but still fragrant from the cognac.

The intensity of his captor's eyes suddenly sprang to mind. Wild, yet focused. Like a tiger. Like a bloody cat, stalking a gazelle, waiting for the moment most prudent to strike. Bond found that such fierce women often made for exciting bedfellows. Even if they often tried to kill him afterwards.

A thin smile spread across his lips. Unfortunately for such predators, Bond was not the gazelle he appeared to be.

He shut the lid of his laptop down with a firm click, and sat on the corner of the bed. This room had been surprisingly well-kept for a hotel of this size. Furniture crafted from wood, sturdy enough to use as a weapon. An expensive television set, which Bond would not make use of. A small refrigerator, with reasonable capacity, although Bond preferred ice for the chilling of wine.

He pressed a hand against the mattress. A bit on the soft side, but at least it was clean. He expected he would sleep well for the night. That was good, because he needed to stay sharp for tomorrow. He wasn't tired just yet, though.

And he still had one more errand to run.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly Carpenter scratched at the bridge of her nose with sharp, blood-red nails. Her evening shift had just begun, and already she could not wait for it to end. At least they tipped well, especially the louder men. Maybe she could go back to college next year, if her parents agreed to let her come home.

Not much chance of that, though. Besides, they were bastards. She was better off by herself, spending time with friends and flirting with customers. They never hit her or called her bad names. All things considered, she figured she could do a lot worse.

She steadied her hand as she poured black coffee from the carafe into the beige mug. Better not to rush, she learned rather quickly. It was no fun getting burnt from coffee. Her father accidentally spilled some on her when she was twelve. It had been the most intense physical pain she had ever experienced, and she tended to shy away from hot beverages ever since then. Oh well.

Her friends recommended some guy to help her with the "phobia", they called it. She didn't need help, though. She was doing great, and besides, she couldn't afford to pay some guy a hundred bucks an hour just to sit and listen while she ran her mouth. She could do that here, in Angelo's, for as long as she wanted. And they even paid her for it.

Life was good.

"Welcome to Angelo's, I'll be right with you".

The words sprang from Molly's mouth instantly, before she even looked the pair of customers in the eye. She'd been working here for nearly a year, and some things just came instinctively. When she passed the menus to them, she caught a glimpse of the man's arm.

An expensive suit.

She was taken aback when she saw the rest of him. This was, by far, the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes on. Feeling strangely winded, she averted her gaze and retreated from the table to retrieve a pair of waters.

With ice. Water in ice, and ice in water. Maybe both?

_Whoa. Slow down._

Molly focused her attention on the pair of waters. One in each hand, she suddenly felt like a juggler. Her father never made good on his promise to take her to the circus when she was little, but she still knew about jugglers from watching them on TV. This must be what they felt like sometimes.

She leveled them both on the table, still slightly damp from her cleaning rag. She suddenly felt ashamed. Whoever this guy was, Molly figured he wasn't used to eating in places like this. He seemed like the sort that would expect wine with every meal, and Angelo's only carried a few domestic beers. Oh well. It was the sort of lifestyle she could never hope to know. She suspected people with lots of money were not as happy as the TV commercials made them out to be.

There was a strange, concentrated look to him. Powerful, maybe. He studied the menu intently, and Molly could guess that he wasn't a regular. Maybe even from out of town. The woman sitting across from him seemed more comfortable, relaxed. Looked old enough to be the guy's mother. Her eyes shifted a lot. Probably been to Angelo's before, already knows what she likes to order.

"Lasagne. You should try it, Mr. Bond. It's the best, isn't it?"

It took Molly a moment to realize that the woman had been talking to her.

"Oh. Yes, yes it is. It's very good lasagne. Very good. I like it".

Stupid. She was stumbling over her words like a little girl. The man probably noticed. She didn't care, and figured he was way out of her league anyway. Brazen men sometimes wrote their phone numbers on the receipt, even adding a large tip as if that would encourage her to call them. She never called, of course, but that didn't stop them from trying to wow her with some bizarre display or boastful tale.

"I think I'll have the lasagne. Since it's so highly recommended".

The man smiled warmly and passed the menu to Molly. These were two behaviors that most customers did not perform, and never at the same time. She snatched the menu from his hand, trying not to make it look as though she'd been caught off guard by some weird playboy charm or whatever he was doing right now. And who the hell did he think he was fooling with that fake British accent? Pathetic.

His eyes were blue.

"Straws. Would you like a straw?" she spoke in a lilting tone.

Molly extracted a pair of straws encased in white paper, offering them to the playboy and hoping that her hand wasn't trembling. She set them down on the table when she realized that she was holding them like chopsticks, as if preparing to extract his blue eyes like slimy sushi from his sockets. She had never eaten sushi before.

"Thank you".

Molly left, and moved on to the next table without saying another word. She had to jot the "2 Lasagne" down on her pad while taking the order of the next customer. She'd forgotten to ask them about drinks. Stupid. She would have to do that later.

Oh well.

"Do you find the work rewarding?"

"Oh yeah, definitely", replied Dr. Wiseman. In her monochrome sweatshirt, Bond thought she looked more like a trainer for a senior exercise program than a devoted scientific researcher. The change of face was refreshing, though. She'd been much more open with him ever since sitting down at the table. Friendlier, if a bit distracted. Bond attributed any aloof qualities to the anticipation of her daughter's arrival. He guessed they had not seen each other in some time, because she kept glancing at the entrance.

Normally, Bond liked to keep a clear line of sight with regard to a room's point of entry. However, he felt relatively safe in Angelo's little restaurant. Anyone who knew his true purpose was not likely to try anything overt. No one would try to kill him in view of the public unless there were extenuating circumstances.

Lasagne had been a fortuitous choice for an entrée. It was very difficult to disrupt and repair the layers of lasagne while concealing it from a sharp-eyed diner. And Bond was nothing if not sharp-eyed. Any danger presented by the heavily salted block of greasy pasta would be fairly apparent to Bond. Even so, he was no stranger to poison and could react very quickly and efficiently in the event of accidental ingestion of nefarious toxin. His chances of surviving a fatal dose of something or other were probably greater than that of most world leaders, since he knew specific countermeasures for such situations. His training helped, but it was only a small fraction of the abilities that made Bond one of the most valuable agents within the entire European continent.

Still, he didn't think the chances of an Emerald Hawk employee slipping an extract of digitalis into his lasagna were very high. Not just yet, at least. Bond expected it to be nothing more than a harmless block of cheese and jarred marinara sauce.

"So how about you, James? You don't mind if I call you James, right? Bet you've had all kinds of interesting jobs. I can sense those kinds of things, you know. Am I right?"

Bond glanced at the foggy rim of his water glass. The corporate logo of a major soft drink company adorned its face. The lasagne would probably be very salty, but perhaps he would avoid the water tonight, just to be on the safe side.

"You most certainly are. And, if I may say so, you have quite a remarkable sense of intuition. Especially for a scientist".

"Oh, it's not all machines and numbers, you know. Science is an art, too. Most people just don't appreciate that". Dr. Wiseman toyed with her glass of water, pale digits grasping its slippery exterior from both sides. It reminded Bond of a carnivorous plant.

"Appreciation is hard to find sometimes", Bond offered another generic phrase. It didn't take much to get the woman talking. In fact, Bond found it almost disappointingly easy. Pretty soon, he would have access to the information he needed, and so far, he hadn't been required to reveal anything substantial about himself. All too easy.

"Exactly, you know what I'm talking about. People hop in their cars, get their immunizations, eat their food, whatever. They never give a second thought to what science has done to enrich their lives, not once. They're more concerned with making a quick buck and gettin' home for a quick fuck, if you'll pardon my French".

Wiseman stifled a laugh by keeping her thin lips pursed. Bond found her sudden amiability rather unusual. He still didn't have any significant trust in her. Agents in his field quickly learned not to trust anyone. The agents that survived their first few assignments, at least.

Bond was always learning, but he was not a rookie.

"I always pardon the French. Getting a pardon from them is another matter, though".

The good doctor chucked openly now.

"Don't tell me you've been to France? Was it a long time ago?"

"Not too long ago. Have you ever been?"

"Oh, me? No. I only went to Europe once, but it was to see relatives in Italy. I can remember it pretty well, but-"

Bond studied the doctor's wrinkled face when she paused in mid-sentence, as if expecting her to collapse suddenly with an exotic projectile protruding from her neck. No such luck.

"Would you excuse me for a moment? I gotta use the girls' room. It's no fun getting old, lemme tell ya. Be right back, keep an eye out for my daughter, alright?"

"Will do".

She shuffled off towards the restrooms, and Bond used the opportunity to carefully survey his surroundings. This was a small, dirty restaurant, with low enough prices to keep a substantial group of regular customers. Bond surmised that Dr. Wiseman was one such faithful customer, and her preference for Italian-American food was probably not a coincidence, given her Italian features and vaunted vacationing in the country of Italy.

Bond liked Italy. He often left the country with new sores and scars, but he always liked the country. The food was beyond compare, and most Americans growing up on restaurants such as this would never know the elegant simplicity of true Italian cuisine. Even highly skilled Italian immigrants could not, in Bond's opinion, reproduce the smell of an Italian kitchen in their homeland. Not while living in New York, at least. Although in some areas of this city, they came rather close.

When his mouth moistened, Bond decided to banish the sensuous memories of freshly baked ciabatta and San Marzano tomatoes from his mind. He would have plenty of time for nostalgia once the good doctor returned.

"Mr. Bond?"

A voice called his name through the jovial chatter of hungry customers, and Bond turned. A woman in a navy blue business suit extended her hand to him.

Bond immediately rose and shook hands, even though he knew the courtesy might betray his British origins to perceptive onlookers.

"You must be Miss Wiseman. Your mother speaks very highly of you".

"I'll bet she does. Would it be alright if I sat beside you? My mother prefers to sit across from me. She's on a restroom break right now, I take it?"

"Yes. And if she's anything like my own mother, I think that will give us at least an hour to get better acquainted".

The woman laughed. Bond found Dr. Wiseman's description of her daughter to be strikingly accurate. Her hair was dark and neatly trimmed, her stance was assertive, yet diplomatic. She had a tiny scar on her chin, which Bond barely noticed. She had all the trappings of an American businesswoman with none of the supercilious pretension.

The doctor's urbanized slang did not do her daughter's beauty any real justice, however. It was the first pleasant surprise Bond had experienced in many months.

"Are you close with your mother?", she asked, sliding herself into the booth beside him.

"No. She passed away when I was a child".

"Oh, I'm so sorry. That's awful".

"Actually, I got along alright. As I said, I wasn't close to her".

Bond was glad he was able to answer these questions truthfully. He wasn't sure why, but something about the woman demanded unbridled honesty. She must have held a very high rank within her organization.

"I get the feeling you're very close with your mother, though", Bond offered, hoping to slide things into a lighter note.

"Hm. You're right about that. Ever since I moved to California, she's been calling me and e-mailing me. She's relentless. I've tried to tell her how hectic things are for me, but sometimes its hard to say 'no' to a person."

Bond watched her lips move as she spoke. They did not appear to be artificially colored, yet there was something alluring about their shape and size. He was certain it was only a matter of time before he'd get the chance to study her mouth in greater detail.

"So why bother?"

"Sorry?"

"There's no point in saying 'no' to something if you don't really want to refuse it".

Her eyes narrowed for a moment, searching for a hidden meaning to his words.

"Guess you might have a point there", she said, smirking.

"If you want to keep close with your mother, do it. Unless you have some other reason for refusing to speak with her, of course".

She seemed to study his face more carefully this time, as if watching an increasingly complicated plot unfolding before her very eyes.

"No. You're right, actually. But I think it'll be easier now. I should be in New York for quite some time".

She smirked again before letting her eyes drop to the menu recently placed before her by a passing waitress. Bond was grateful for her reciprocation. This diplomatic woman in a suit knew how to play games. She was sharp and adaptive. Such women knew how to drive men wild, but were not above tossing them away like yesterday's bread. They were dangerous, and Bond was always at home among dangerous people.

Bond felt a vibrating sensation against his rib. Damn phone.

"Would you excuse me a moment, Miss Wiseman?"

"Oh, call me Lynn", she waved a hand dismissively as she cleared out of the booth.

"Thank you, Lynn. You can call me James. Promise you won't go anywhere?"

"I don't make promises".

"What a clever girl you are", Bond quipped. He quickly exited the diner and pressed his thumb against his cellular phone. It was cold and dark outside the diner, but this made it easier to read the text message occupying the upper half of the phone's display screen.

"Outside in 30 sec", the text commanded him with its tiny black letters on white nothingness. Bond was already outside, so he guessed this wouldn't be too urgent. There were very few people at MI6 capable of contacting Bond's phone directly, so he felt secure in the knowledge that a text message from a crafty villain was totally out of the question.

He pretended not to notice the clicking of boots as someone approached him from the left. There was no sudden sound of noisy restaurant crowds to suggest a door being opened, so whoever was standing beside him now had paused with special intent.

When Bond finally allowed himself to steal a glance at the newcomer on his left, he nearly gasped aloud.


End file.
